


Boys Who Like Boys

by Culumacilinte



Category: Monty Python RPF
Genre: Coming Out, M/M, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-20
Updated: 2006-09-22
Packaged: 2017-10-15 13:48:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Culumacilinte/pseuds/Culumacilinte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some boys who like other boys; everybody knows this.  For his part, Michael Palin realised he was one of those boys at a fairly young age; however, it will take loves both gained and lost in order for him to come to terms with it.  A story of Mike’s life, starting at the very beginning, and progressing until the third season of Monty Python’s Flying Circus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

At some point in his young life, Michael learned that there were some boys who liked other boys.  He was unsure when exactly the information had been imparted to him; he knew neither by whom nor why he had been told, but he knew, and that was the point.  What was more, he learned that these boys were unnatural- people to be mocked and ridiculed and condemned for their filthy, sinful ways.  “Fairy”, “faggot”, “poofter”, “queer”; these words were ingrained into his child’s brain.  Now, Michael himself never actually used them, for he was a quiet, shy boy possessed of a sweet disposition who didn’t like fighting or confrontation of any sort.  Besides, it didn’t seem to make much sense to him to make fun of somebody for something they couldn’t help.

So Michael knew, but the knowledge didn’t have any bearing on his life at all until he was eleven years old, and still at Birkdale.  There was a boy several years older than he who, it was rumoured, was a homosexual.  Whether he was actually gay or not, Michael didn’t know, but the boy was slight of build and had a fine-featured, effeminate face under a shock of slightly overlong, “girly” hair the colour of honey.  And, more importantly to the gang of prepubescent boys who tortured him, he hated sport.  This was more than enough to get the boy instantly labeled as a queer; taunted and jeered at in corridors, targeted as the object of childish pranks.  Michael always felt vaguely sorry for him, but it was easy enough to ignore, as the boy was older and he rarely saw him. 

As Michael grew older, there were other boys, other rumours; and though he always sympathized with them (because of his quiet and passive nature, he himself was often picked as the target of bullies who enjoyed victimising anybody who wouldn’t fight back), he never said anything, never intervened on their behalf.  He didn’t want any trouble, and so stayed consistently silent on the subject.

Now, although he was more familiar with the topic of boys who fancied other boys, it was still some time before Michael realised that he _was_ one of those boys.  It started off with dreams; secret dreams, shameful dreams, dreams which had Michael waking in the middle of the night, sweating and shaking and unbearably aroused, trying desperately to rid his mind of the images which still lingered.  Yet, try though he might to picture voluptuous breasts or the sway of a woman’s hips as she walked and tell himself that _that_ was what he wanted, he could not dispel the feelings his dreams engendered.  The husky voice of a man whispering things he could barely imagine against his ear; the heated kisses which were so much more forceful than those of any girl he had ever snogged; the (and he tried even harder to ignore this one) image of a man arching and gasping beneath him as he... well, he daren’t even give a name to it.

However, despite these dreams, he managed somehow not to think about the subject- even occasionally dating birds in a fruitless effort to return his affections to the appropriate sex- until he was sixteen years old and met James.  James was a year older than he, a tall redhead with storm-coloured eyes and a dancer’s grace.  From the first moment Michael set eyes on him, he had been captivated by him; his wryly intelligent sense of humour, his sophistication, the mere way he carried himself which spoke of a kind of romance and worldliness no seventeen year old could ever really have.  Mike took to striking up a conversation with him when he wasn’t otherwise occupied or sneaking outside with him to smoke a fag during breaks.  Eventually, despite the fact that James was a year his elder, (something which matters quite a bit when one is sixteen) they got to be good friends.  There was nothing markedly unusual about their relationship; on the surface at least, they appeared to be the same as any two other teenaged boys.  There was more though, simmering beneath the surface, hidden in the guise of occasional wistful glances, touches which maybe lingered unnecessarily, awkward silences which could not be explained.  These remained unremarked upon until one day when the two boys, having for once managed to escape the attentions of their masters, were lounging in the sun on the roof of James’ quad.

They had been sitting and passing a cigarette back and forth when James suddenly looked up.  “Hey, Mike?”

Michael languorously raised one eyebrow, “Mmm?”

“D’you, uh, ever think about blokes?”

Michael was struck dumb, frozen on the spot; he stared at James.  Somewhere deep down within himself, an irrepressibly hopeful little bubble had swelled, despite his efforts to quell it.  Could James fancy him as well?  Was it possible?  But he dared not voice those thoughts, lest they prove to be wrong.  Instead, he gave James a sideways look

“What’re you playing at?”

“Nothing, nothing!”  James spluttered hastily, clearly afraid he’d offended Mike, “I was just... wondering.  Y’know.”

Mike regarded him carefully, searching his eyes (those beautiful, bluegreygreen eyes, so deep and sparkling and wise, Michael’s brain put in before he could shut it up) for any sign of an ulterior motive; any malice or mischief.  But he found none, and carefully he answered.

“Sometimes.”

James’ relief was almost palpable, and his face split into a broad smile as he answered in like kind.

“Yeah, me too.  Sometimes.” 

They both looked down, somewhat surprised at what had just been said.  Mike’s head was in a turmoil of thought and speculation.  Was James saying what he thought he was saying?  He hardly thought it could be possible, as much as he wished it were true.  He stole a quick glance over at the other boy, who was blushing an endearing pink and clashing horribly with his hair.  They sat there for some time until presently, and with a supreme effort of will, James moved his hand, nervously and awkwardly, so that it was just resting on top of Michael’s. 

Michael smiled hesitantly and turned his hand so that his fingers twined with James’.  The hand tightened on his ever so slightly, and Mike glanced over at the other boy, sharing a small, secret smile with him.  The memory of that smile on a rooftop on that sunny, languid afternoon stayed with Michael for a long time.

But all such things fade, and this was no exception, although it ended rather more traumatically than most teenage romances.  Somehow, neither of them ever discovered exactly how, James’ parents found out that he was involved with another boy and, terrified that he was turning into a “filthy homosexual”, as they put it, instantly assured that he never made contact with Michael again.  It was horrible.  He had no notice, no nothing.  One day, James merely didn’t show up- nor was he there the next day, nor the next.  Mike concluded, (somewhat ridiculously, in retrospect) that James no longer cared about him, and had abandoned him in favour of more important people.  This belief was not dispelled until quite some time afterward, when he heard two boys discussing whatever had happened to James, who had, after all, been so popular and so cool.

“I heard he was a poove.” A gangly-looking boy with a long nose saying to another, younger boy who was rapturously hanging on his every word.

“Who?”

“That redhead bloke who just disappeared- what’s-‘is-name- Wyverly.”

“So that’s why-”

“Aye; I heard his mum an’ dad found out and they chucked ‘im out.”

Mike didn’t bother to listen to the rest of the conversation.  It was his fault, then, that James was gone.  If he hadn’t... _no._ He tried to force the feelings of guilt to the back of his mind; it wasn’t either of their faults, he just had to be more careful.  This was just another reason not to let anybody ever know about the way he was, at least not now.

And careful he was; Michael was an actor, and the character he created for himself was as finely crafted as anything Shakespeare or Moliere could ever have created.  Nobody ever saw through it, for it wasn’t as if he was even “Michael Palin the straight boy”, he was just “Michael Palin”; his sexuality never even came into it.  But, despite how other people might have perceived him, there was nothing he could do to stop the dreams, which were even more persistent than before.  At night, he saw James in his sleep, recalling with a hopeless sort of longing every touch, every tempest-coloured glance, every clumsily whispered word of affection.

When he got to Oxford however, Michael’s dreams changed.  Now he dreamt of a boy with dark, glittering eyes and smooth black hair like the wings of ravens, a boy whose voice was silky and laughing in his ear.  Terry Jones, the rising star of the dazzling underground that was the Oxford theatre.  Michael had never actually met him, but he’d seen him perform, and immediately, Jones had become the epitome of what Mike wanted to be, what he wanted Oxford to see him as.  However, Jones was about as unlike Michael as one could get; he was Welsh; tanned and dark and intense, imposing despite his height in his brown hairy check coat with his hands shoved into his pockets and wearing a moody scowl.  Although he was still an underclassman, he was deeply involved with the Experimental Theatre Company and had gained a reputation of being not only a remarkable actor, but a writer to boot, as he performed his own works more often than not.  It was as distant as a dream to Mike, but he pursued it avidly nonetheless.

He often likened it to his earlier experience getting to know James; Terry Jones, like James, was a year Michael’s elder.  Like him, he seemed unattainable- an ethereal being a step above the mundane drudgery of the rest of the college.  Like him, he was beautiful, popular, everything Mike aspired to be.  But unlike James, Michael came into contact with him all the time.  Jones was reading History, just as Michael was, and though they had few lectures together (Jones was studying mediæval history, but Mike didn’t yet know what he wanted to specialise in), Mike often saw him in the History Wing and in or around the theatre, which Michael also frequented.

Despite the frequency with which the two boys crossed paths, the event of an actual conversation between them was rare indeed.  Over the course of his entire first term, Michael worked up the nerve to talk to Jones maybe half a dozen times, and even these were mostly mumbled monosyllables- _Hey_ or _D’you have the time?_ But as he had proved with James, Michael was skilled at getting to know those whom he wished to, and by his second year, the two had become good friends. They bonded over their shared interests in theatre and history, having long and heated discussions about Chaucer (Terry’s particular interest), politics (though they were both quite liberal, they still managed to find things to fight about), and innumerable other topics which they somehow never ran out of.Though he was enchanted by Terry, Mike had by this time refined the veneer everybody else saw him through to the point where he himself sometimes had difficulty distinguishing which was which, and he was more careful around Terry than with anybody else.He knew what he was doing, and he was quite able to make sure that neither Terry nor anybody else would ever find out about Michael’s infatuation with him. However, because of his care to never let anyone know about his sexuality, it sometimes felt that he was the only gay man in the world, and thus, never did it even cross his mind that Terry might possibly feel a similar way about him.

So they continued, Mike suppressing his feelings daily, honing and refining the mask he wore around Terry, and nobody was any the wiser for it.  Unbeknownst to Michael, however, Terry himself was dealing with almost the exact same situation. 

Like Michael, Terry had been captivated by the other boy from the moment he met him, though for precisely the opposite reason.  Michael had seemed so different from Oxford to Terry; someone apart from the stiflingly exclusive world of the theatre; a breath of fresh air, as it were.  Not to mention, of course, that he was absolutely drop-dead gorgeous.  Or so thought Terry.  For unlike Michael, he had never had any qualms about his sexuality, knowing full well that he went both ways; he fancied birds and blokes.  He’d known this for several years, despite the headmaster at his primary school, who repeatedly insisted that anybody involved in the theatre was a fairy and a poove, and therefore was on a direct path to Hell, that domain of fire and brimstone, where all schoolboys who weren’t perfectly proper and upstanding models of British maleness were inevitably destined. 

Michael, with his soft, perfectly combed brown hair, his smiling eyes, fair complexion, rosy cheeks...he was an image, that first time Terry had seen him, slightly windblown, looking rather lost and confused amidst the scholastic grandeur of gothic buildings and bustling students.It was just a chance passing while walking to one of his lectures, nothing special.There had been no spark, no fleeting moment of eye contact, just Terry in the middle of the pavement trying not to stare at this beautiful, beautiful boy, and with the rest of his brain, trying not to drop his load of books.Of course, however, he did, and when he straightened up after having gathered his belongings once more, the boy was gone.   


But now he had discovered him, Terry began to find the boy everywhere; in cold January, sitting on a bench under a grey, leafless tree; talking animatedly with friends, tripping out of a classroom and laughing at himself as he did so, and performing.  Performing most of all.  Michael Palin, that was his name, and to see him on stage was a wonder and a joy to Terry, and so when Michael, after the smokers or the improv shows, took to approaching Terry with a nervous smile and asking if he had a fag... well, Terry was only too happy to share.

However, if one allows something to simmer for too long, it will eventually come to a boil, and this was no exception.  It was an afternoon utterly indistinguishable from any of the hundreds of others contained in the school year; Michael and Terry were closeted in Terry’s room; Terry with his nose buried in _Canterbury Tales_ , and Mike writing an essay for his Classics course, neither paying a great deal of attention to each other until Terry abruptly closed his book with a snap and got up from the stained sofa to stretch, yawning cavernously. 

“Well,” he said, his voice muted by another yawn which was threatening to break free, “I suppose I’ll be off then, Mike.  I’ve got a lecture in a bit, and it’s all the bloody way on the other side of the campus. You can stay here until you finish that formidable-looking paper, if you fancy.”

“Just a tick...” Michael muttered absently, now scribbling so furiously that the tip of his pen dented the paper.  “Done!” He exclaimed triumphantly after a moment, throwing his pen down onto the finished essay.  He too got up then, with a yawn to match Terry’s, running a hand through his hair.  “I’ll come with you; I said I’d meet Rob in a while, and he’s closer to my quad.”  He said, following Terry to the door.

Just before they reached it, however, Terry spoke up suddenly, taking Michael by surprise. 

“Hey Mike, d’you-”

Terry turned abruptly and almost collided directly with the other boy.  Reeling, he grasped Michael’s forearms to keep from falling, and in the action of hauling himself upright, brought his face within an inch of Michael’s.  There was a quick intake of breath from Michael and then a pregnant silence as the two stared at each other, neither quite daring to speak or move.  Whatever Terry had been about to ask Michael was completely forgotten in their sudden and unnerving proximity to each other.  Finally, Terry spoke in a choked whisper

“Are you...”

The rest of the question hung unspoken in the air between them.  Mike gulped.

“Yeah.”  The word was barely more than a breath; anything else he might have said banished by the heat of Terry’s lips so close to his own.  Although no more words were said, the question in Terry’s darkling eyes was more eloquent than anything he could have said.  In answer, Michael smiled a small, nervous smile, leaned forward, and pressed his lips to Terry’s.

It was awkward; it was horribly awkward.  There was no movement, it was just a stiff touch of lips on lips, and neither of them could quite figure out what to do with their hands or any of the rest of their bodies.  Michael made a quiet, muffled sound of discontent against Terry’s mouth and self-consciously his eyes flicked open.  He met Terry’s equally uncomfortable gaze and, as if on cue, the two broke away from each other.

There was a silence.  Then Michael cleared his throat; Terry giggled.

“Well, I feel a bit of a prat.”

Terry smiled wryly in assent.  Michael rocked back and forth on his heels for a moment, before once again clearing his throat.  “Erm, I suppose I’ll be going then.”

Almost faster than his eyes could track, Terry’s hand shot out and closed around Michael’s wrist.  “Oh, no you don’t!  If we’re going to do this, we’re bloody well going to do it properly.”

Michael stared.  “Terry, I don’t...” he shrugged, trailing off lamely.

Terry raised an eyebrow quite seriously, gazing unblinkingly at Michael.  “Do you want this, Mike?”

Mike drew in a shuddering breath, his eyes slipping shut, unconsciously biting down on his lower lip.  Finally, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

Terry’s lips curved in a splinter of a smile and, as if considering, he cocked his head to one side and reached up gently to tuck a wayward lock of Mike’s soft brown hair behind his ear.  A shudder rippled down Michael’s spine as rough fingertips brushed his skin.  At this tremour, Terry grinned, and then leaned up and kissed him.

It was a soft kiss, nothing more than a brushing of lips, testing and tentative.  Indeed, one would hardly guess that it had been there at all, save for the lingering traces of warmth left and the heated blush of the boy’s cheeks.  Terry’s lips were warm and dry as they nudged against Michael’s, inviting a response, and obliging, Michael tilted his head and deepened the kiss.  Terry’s hand stole up, seemingly of its own accord, cupping the side of Mike’s face; just gently resting against the skin, his fingers stroking Michael’s growing sideburns.  However, there was still some degree of hesitancy in the kiss; an uncertainty in the way their bodies touched.  Soon though, Terry’s touch on Michael’s face tightened from a mere touch to a clasp; gripping tightly, drawing the two of them even closer.

Their mouths moved together now, tasting of tobacco and flesh and something which might have been cinnamon, all awkwardness now lost in wet heat and the sensation of flesh sliding smoothly along flesh.  Terry’s tongue curled around Mike’s, exploring the other boy’s mouth.

Michael was lost- completely and utterly lost.  They were no longer merely kissing, they were _snogging_ , and god, it was amazing.  This was what he had wanted ever since he’d first come to Oxford, though he’d never even entertained the idea that it could ever actually happen.  That Terry Jones, the beautiful, mysterious poster boy for Oxford’s theatre might want him, the odd, introverted kid from Yorkshire... it was unthinkable.  Yet here he was; Terry pressed flush against his body, tongue making a valient bid for his throat and fingers curled into the hair at the back of Mike's neck.

At long last, Terry broke away with a final nibble of Michael’s kiss-swollen lower lip.

“Fuck...” Michael breathed.

Terry grinned, as if he wasn’t in exactly the same state as Michael.  “Y’liked that then, Palin?”

Mike nodded breathlessly, although his brow was now furrowed with worry.  Seeing this, Terry’s mouth creased in a frown.

“What’s the matter?”

Slowly, Michael shook his head.  “I-I dunno if we can do this, Tel.  No, don’t.”  He held up his hands, stopping Terry from interrupting and continued speaking.  “I really like this, don’t get me wrong; hell, it was bloody amazing, but...”  He trailed off, looking pleadingly at Terry.

Terry said nothing.

“What if someone found out?  I wouldn’t worry, just- that happened with this lad I... knew when I was younger.  We kinda had a thing- nothing serious, you know, but we were into each other.  And, well... his parents found out that he was with another bloke, and... I never saw him at school again.  I dunno if they just pulled him out or what, but... I don’t want that to happen to us.”

Michael let out a soft breath; never before had he told anybody about him and James, much less what had happened with them.  He knew that Terry would understand, though, as he always seemed to do.

Terry smiled softly.  “But it can’t.  Our parents can’t pull us out of university, man.  Parents’ve got nothing to do with us anymore.”

Mike sighed.  “Well, yeah, but I didn’t mean just that.”  He looked down, shamefaced.  “It’s just, well; I don’t want anybody to know.  You know what they think of people like that, Terry.  And I’ve seen what they’ll do to them.  I’d be too scared.”

He fell silent, full of confusion at his own desires, as well as embarrassment at his admission of weakness.  Discreetly he glanced up at Terry, almost afraid he would see in his face disappointment at Michael’s cowardice.  When his light brown eyes met Terry’s however, he saw not condemnation, but empathy and a sort of weary acceptance.

Saying nothing, Terry drew Michael into his arms, burying his nose in the other boy’s hair, hugging him fiercely.  Feeling those strong arms tight about him, Michael returned the embrace, breathing in the scent which hung about him.  Terry smelled of smoke and vanilla and autumn; a warm, soft odour which seemed to recall something which he had known before.

“It’ll be alright, man.” Terry murmured against his ear, rocking him back and forth ever so slightly.  “We can hide it; nobody ever need find out.  It’ll be our thing- our secret.”

Mike nodded against his shoulder, hoping, if not entirely believing, that Terry was right.

But he was.  To all intents and purposes, and as far as anybody else knew, Michael Palin and Terry Jones were just two ordinary Oxford boys.  Good friends; indeed, best friends, but nobody ever suspected that there was more to their relationship than that.  In any event, people thought, they were theatre people, and everybody knew that theatre people were always a bit... strange, as it were, so that provided a ready excuse for anyone who noticed anything odd.

And so the months passed, and Mike and Terry were as happy as only a couple their age could be- they were totally in love, at least as far as they saw it, and nobody else was any the wiser.  They both were lauded for their work in the ETC, where they often wrote and performed together along with their mutual friend, Rob Hewison.  When they weren’t performing, they went to watch other plays or revues.  Both free from the constraints of parents and old identities, they found that the old axiom of “college is the best time of your life” could not be more true.  

And of course, Terry eventually graduated with honours, and though Mike was naturally a little saddened by this, it didn’t matter much, because Terry had a little flat just outside the main body of Oxford, close enough for Michael to walk to if he wanted to.  They saw each other less that summer, for Terry was off looking for work and becoming the proverbial starving artist, but still it was not enough to cause them any fear for their relationship.  Summer days came and went; some spent lazing in each other’s arms, too lethargic and listless from the heat to actually do anything; others were spent separately, each pursuing their own endeavours. 

The months passed away in a kind of beatific haze; Terry looking for work, Mike still reading his History at Oxford.  Jobs came and went for Terry, and it was with an increasing franticness that he carried on his search for employment, hoping that his reputation as a comedy writer (for, as he had discovered, though he enjoyed the stage, writing was his true passion) might land him a decent job. 

Michael and Rob continued writing together, just the two of them once more, as it had been before Michael had got to know Terry.  Though they wrote well together, no show they did together ever garnered as much applause as _Loitering Within Tent, Hang Down Your Head and Die,_ or _The Oxford Revue_ \- shows that they had worked on with Terry.  So, good though their friendship and partnership was, it came as no surprise to Michael when, upon graduation, Robert left in search of what he laughingly called “a proper job”, leaving Mike to try and make his way in the entertainment business. 

Now it was Michael’s turn to hop from job to job- first working as host for the pop music show _NOW!_ on Television Wales West,something Terry had teased him relentlessly about.  Terry himself had, by this point, become a fairly steady writer at the BBC, contributing bits of this and that to different comedy shows.  It was not a fabulous job by any account, and certainly not a career, but it was a start, and Terry was glad of it.  He enjoyed working on _NOW!_ , despite his relative lack of interest in the topic of the show, but eventually, through encouragement and a bit of nudging from Terry, he began moonlighting on other light comedy shows. Some were on the BBC, but mostly he worked at other, smaller networks, as he couldn’t seem to hold down a job at the famous British Broadcasting Company.

It was not until November of 1966, the year after Michael had graduated, however, when anything even remotely resembling a break came for either of them.  It was around eight o’clock in the evening, and Mike was huddled against the cold in his flat, sipping from a steaming mug of tea and scribbling in a notebook which lay in his lap.  With a creak and a sudden gust of chill air, his door flew open, and Terry stood, framed in the doorway.  
Mike blinked at him; he was ruddy cheeked and panting from both the cold and his apparent excitement.  “Well, hello;” he said rather bemusedly, “what’re you doing back here? I thought you had work now.”

“I got off early.” Said Terry absently, “Can I get a cup of that?”  He asked, gesturing toward the cup Michael was clutching.

Mike smiled, and got up to go fetch Terry his drink.  “Right bloody freeloader, you are.  Skiving off work and now robbing me of my tea?  I don’t know why I put up with you.”

Terry waved off Michael’s sarcastic comment, too energized to snap back with a biting rejoinder as he was usually wont to.  “You won’t believe it, Mike!  D’you know who rang me the other day?”

Mike sighed and crossed his arms across his chest, fully prepared to humour the other boy as he went off on one of his rants, as he so often did.  “No, I don’t.  Why don’t you tell me?”

“David Frost!!”

Michael’s jaw dropped, his patronizing manner immediately forgotten.  “He didn’t.”  Of course, it wasn’t exactly a huge surprise, as it was almost impossible to escape the clutches of Frost if one was involved in Oxford theatre, but given the current state of affairs of Michael’s search for employment, he certainly had not been expecting it.  Terry would be less thrilled once they actually got around to doing the show, he was sure, but for now, he allowed himself to be caught up in the other man’s contagious excitement.  After all, it felt different for Michael, he was sure.  He’d never felt entirely at home at Oxford- not the way Terry had- and to him, the news felt like a confirmation; as if somebody had suddenly told him that he was more than just the weird, introverted Yorkshire bloke, that he could be an actor.  He was brought out of his reverie, however, by an ecstatic Welsh accent.

“He did!”  Terry squealed.  “And d’you know what else?”  Michael nodded breathlessly, waiting for Terry to go on.  “He wants us to do a show for him!  On bloody BBC 1! Us and all these other blokes- Tim Brooke-Taylor, and Bill Oddie, and a bunch from Cambridge; you recall, the ones I was telling you about the other day?”

Mike did remember, vaguely.  It had been maybe a few weeks ago when Terry had called Michael up, late at night, all keyed up after having seen a show put on by a couple of former Footlights members.  It had been sketch comedy, something Michael really would have liked, Terry had told him.  He remembered very little of what Terry had actually said about the show- only something ridiculous about “owl-stretching” and something about a floating toad.  All Michael really remembered of the conversation was that Terry had been incredibly impressed with one of the performers (Gary?  Garth?  Well, it had been something beginning with a G), saying that he could understand why everybody else was funny, but this guy made him laugh without him having any idea why. _A complete lunatic,_ Terry had said, _but he was brilliant, y’know?  Like, you had no idea where he was coming from; the others, you knew why they were funny- you could tell why they made you laugh, but this bloke... He could get up there on that stage and act completely normal, and somehow it was just utterly hilarious._ Now that he thought about it, Michael remembered teasing him and asking if he should be worried about Terry cheating on him with this fellow

“You remember?”  Terry prompted him.

Mike started.  “Oh-yeah, yeah I do.  But... the BBC, seriously?  An actual show?”

“Yeah!  It’s... oh God, what’re their names- Cleese- something Cleese, and Graham Chapman.  And this other fellow; Eric Idol, or Idle; I dunno.  I didn’t see him, though, so I dunno how he is.”

 _Graham_ , Michael thought, _so that was the bloke’s name._ “Graham Chapman,” he stated, tasting the name, “He was the one you were so infatuated with after you saw him, wasn’t he?”   He fixed Terry with a mocking smile and Terry rolled his eyes.

“I am not _infatuated_ with him.” He said haughtily, and with the air of one who has been forced to repeat a truth many times over.  “I merely have an artist’s appreciation for his work, which is considerable.”

“Riiight...”  Michael drawled expressively, “I’m sure that’s it.”

Terry cocked an eyebrow in Michael’s direction.  “Would you like me to prove it to you?”  He husked, a ridiculous parody of a femme fatale's purr. 

Mike snickered, but still managed to look skeptical.  “Go on then; let’s see if you can.”

Terry’s mouth stretched in an evil grin.  “If you insist.”

In one swift movement, he closed the space in between himself and Michael, catching him up in a feverish kiss, their tongues sliding together with practised ease, all wet heat and passion.  When he broke away, Michael grinned contentedly.

“Mmm... I love it when you do that.”

Terry’s smile was dreamy as he answered.  “I do too.  Now, how ‘bout you take off that shirt; I hate it.”

“Why?”  Asked Mike vaguely, though even as he did, he was beginning to undo the shirt’s buttons.

“Because” stated Terry matter-of-factly, “it means you're not naked.”  He captured Michael’s lips in a swift kiss, reaching down to help unbutton the shirt.  “And _that_ , love,is a veritable crime.”

Michael was about to protest that it was far too cold to be naked, but with another quick kiss, Terry pulled off Mike’s shirt, and started on his own.  Michael watched him, absentmindedly unzipping his own trousers and pulling off his pants, letting them fall to the floor where he stepped out of them and stood, unable to take his eyes off Terry.  Noticing Michael’s stare, Terry slowed down his frantic undressing and flicked his dark, hooded gaze over to Mike, smiling seductively.  Delicately, he slipped open the buttons on his shirt, slowly revealing a tantalising sliver of tanned skin.  Despite his arousal, Mike laughed at the performance.

“You know you’re sexy when you do that, but spare me the striptease and get over here.”

Terry readily complied.  Michael, lounging on the couch, surveyed the familiar sight before him.  Terry was short and stocky; well muscled, but not as slender as Michael, with a round face and soft belly.  He took in dark eyes made black with lust, narrow shoulders, and hands with short yet delicate fingers.  His chest, with just the barest dusting of soft dark hair, Mike’s eyes drifting down until just below the navel, where the hair condensed into a wavering trail.  And there, proud and erect amidst its nest of black curls, was Terry’s arousal; not as long as Michael’s, but wider around, dark and hard and begging for him.

Terry smiled lazily, his eyes flicking downwards.  “You like what you see?”

Michael made no answer, but instead rolled over on to his stomach, exposing his arse to the cold air and Terry’s hungry eyes.  Terry smirked. 

“Oooh, we are eager, aren’t we?”


	2. Chapter 2

It was not until about a week later when Frost’s producer arranged for a meeting between Frost and all the potential new writers on his show _._ Those Terry had mentioned- Chapman, Cleese, and Idle were there, as well as Tim Brooke-Taylor, Denis Norden, Bill Oddie, and a smattering of others whose names neither Michael nor Terry could recall.  The two of them wended their way through the crowd, dispensing polite greetings and acknowledgments, until they ran almost directly into three men standing and talking amongst themselves.

“Terribly sorry,” muttered one of them, but Terry waved the comment away, looking positively delighted.

“Well, if it isn’t Messrs. Cleese, Chapman, and Idle!  The very ones I was looking for, at that.”  The shortest of the group (though he was still taller than both Mike and Terry by a fair amount) was looking quizzically at the two of them, so Terry continued.  “Terry Jones.”  He said, “We’ve met before.”

“Ah!  So we have.  And this would be...”  He inclined his head toward Michael.

“Michael Palin.”  Terry announced, a faint note of pride flavouring the name as he spoke it.  “Mike, this is John Cleese- John, Michael Palin- Graham Chapman- Gray, Mike Palin- and Eric Idle.  Eric... you know by now- this is Michael.”

The man called John was tall, broad-chested, and vaguely official-looking, with fine, neatly combed brown hair and a long, solemn face.  He was an impressive figure, easily towering over most of the crowd, drawing gazes by both his stature and the intensity of his expression.  The edge of his thin lips curled up in a slight smile as he shook Michael’s hand firmly, the corners of his pale, grey-brown eyes crinkling.  Michael returned his handshake and smile, looking up at him.

The man positioned next to John stood as if in direct contrast to his clipped, severe appearance; if John Cleese looked stern, Eric Idle looked... cheeky.  That was the only word to describe the attitude he seemed to exude.  He was extremely handsome, with delicate, almost feminine features and had thick, smooth hair the colour of burnished bronze, swept back across the tops of his ears.  His clear blue eyes sparkled with mischief, and the hint of a smile hovered constantly around the slight lines about his mouth.  When Michael proffered his hand, Eric grabbed it and pumped it vigorously, giving Michael a broad smile.

“Mike, yeah?  Brilliant, mate, just gear.”

Michael laughed at the other man’s enthusiasm, returning the greeting with something vague about how much he couldn’t wait to start working with him.  Finally, Eric released his hand, and feeling slightly overwhelmed by his energy, Michael turned to the third man.

The last one- Graham- was almost as tall as John, but had none of his imposing manner.  He was a scholarly-looking type, wearing tweed and with a pipe hanging out of his mouth.  It suited him, Michael thought, noting almost unconsciously that he was a _very_ good looking man.  As if to belie this rather straight-laced appearance, his sparkling blue eyes and slightly crooked nose lent him a rather whimsical air.  His dark blonde hair had clearly once been styled as tidily as John’s and Eric’s, but had become disheveled at some point, framing his face in a sort of wispy halo in the dusty light. 

He smiled a sweet, demure smile when Michael made eye contact with him and took his pipe out of his mouth, stretching out his hand to Michael.  Mike took it.

“Excellent to meet you, Michael.” Graham murmured smoothly, squeezing Mike’s hand slightly in his.  He dropped Michael’s hand with another smile and moved back, his gaze flicking down to trace Michael’s body beneath the suit he wore.  One perfectly sculpted eyebrow rose and soft lips curved in a smirk; evidently Graham was impressed with what he saw. 

Michael blushed.  Terry, who was busy talking with John, did not notice.

“I’ve heard so much about you from Terry.”

“Oh?”  Graham looked amused.  “Dare I even ask what?  I’m sure it’s all complete rubbish.”

Mike grinned in return; one could hardly help it around Graham.  “We’ll see.”

“Ah!  So we shall.”

Intrigued though he was by this Graham Chapman, Michael rarely saw him during his time working with _The Frost Report._ He and Terry were little more than background players in a large cast of writers and actors, and Chapman and his writing partner, John Cleese, were by far senior to Jonesy and himself; they appeared onscreen probably more than anybody else, and their comedy was visibly favoured, though certainly not without reason. 

Soon, however, he and Terry left the show, along with Eric Idle, to work on a children’s programme- _Do Not Adjust Your Set-_ and his sudden, disturbing infatuation with Graham was soon forgotten.  He heard distantly of him, here and there, but the mention of his name or the sound of his voice no longer inspired the little prickle of gooseflesh or flush of heat which it used to.  Thankful, he returned to Terry with renewed zeal, with only a passing comment from him on how absentminded he’d been lately.

So time went by, and Terry and Mike resumed life as it had been before _The Frost Report_ , each moonlighting briefly on this show and that, earning not much, but enough, until somehow the idea came about that they should do a show with none other than Graham himself, as well as John Cleese, Eric Idle, and one Terry Gilliam, an American whom they had worked with on _Do Not Adjust Your Set._ He did animations, the use of which in a television show Mike had at first been skeptical about, but soon discovered that they leant the programme a wonderful, ‘stream of consciousness’ flow which they would be hard-put to accomplish with ordinary links.  Gilliam himself was wonderful to work with; his brash American mannerisms and straightforward viewpoint were refreshing amongst all the polite and faintly snobbish Brits who worked at the BBC, and his sense of humour was brilliantly bizarre and off kilter.  

The notion was tossed about for some time, until Barry Took, a producer for the BBC, took it upon himself to get the six of them along with BBC programme planners and a fellow by the name of Ian MacNaughton together, so they could actually talk about it in earnest. 

Now, Michael knew, of course, that Graham would be there; that he would be talking with Graham and being close to him- far more so than when they worked on _The Frost Report_ , but it had been so long since he’d last seen him that he’d quite forgotten the effect the other man had on him.  And even so, he thought, it was just a silly, schoolboy crush; he hadn’t seen the man in years; there was no way he could feel that same way about Graham Chapman as he had when he’d first met him.  No; no way at all.

So it was that when he actually saw Graham that day, it hit him like a punch to the gut. He showed up at Terry’s front door along with Eric and Ian, wearing tight tan corduroys and a turquoise beater shirt; an outfit which would have looked horrendous on anybody else, but which Graham somehow wore with the improbable grace with which he carried everything. His hair was longer than before, and the untamable bits which stuck out here and there caught the sun to glow with a tawny luminescence. As before, he carried nothing but his pipe, and the sweet, heavy smell of the tobacco tickled Mike’s nose. Every single inconvenient feeling which had rushed into Michael’s life the first time he met Gray (and which he had thought had left behind along with the man himself) came back with a vengeance; Mike felt slightly dizzy.

By his side, he could hear Terry greeting the three men, asking them to please come inside; Michael blinked hard, forcing himself back to the moment, wrenching his eyes away from Graham to the other two.

“Ian MacNaughton, I presume?”  The short, dark man standing next to Graham nodded amiably, looking over his glasses at him.

“Aye, that I am.” They shook hands, and Michael turned to Eric, whose smile suggested that he had seen Mike’s initial reaction to Graham’s presence. Mike ignored that possibility.

“Eric,” he said with a gladness that was not feigned; he had grown very fond of Eric, and had missed his company in his time since _Do Not Adjust Your Set._   “I’ve missed you, you looney.” Eric grinned back at him.

“Mikey!”  Eric exclaimed, pulling Mike into a swift hug which bespoke more than he was ever willing to say out loud. Releasing Michael, he started into the house, following Terry and Ian, but paused halfway down the hallway and turned back to Mike for a parting shot; “And it takes one to know one, Mr. Palin.”

Mike grinned, and turned back to Graham, who was still standing on the stoop, sucking on his pipe and looking amused.  Michael swallowed with some difficulty and tried to make the smile he gave Graham as bland and meaningless as he could; he was fairly sure he failed.

“Hey, Graham.”

Gray removed the pipe from his mouth and grinned, holding out his hand to shake.  It would have been rude to refuse, not to mention that it would require a very awkward explanation, so Mike took it in his, trying not to note how soft and cool it was; how very well it fit in his own hand.  Naturally, he failed, and his hand gave a great twitch in Graham’s; he dropped it, a faint blush colouring his cheeks. 

Graham looked at him, and his questioning gaze was not entirely innocent, “You alright, Mike?”

“Yeah.”  Michael answered hastily, “Y’know,” he added, shaking his hand a little as if to illustrate what it was Graham was supposed to know.  Graham raised his eyebrows.

“Quite.”

“Well!”  Mike’s voice was suddenly upbeat as he gestured to Graham, “Don’t want to keep the others waiting, eh?  Let’s go.”  Setting off down the hallway to Terry’s backyard, he was sure he could feel Graham’s gaze trained on him, but he hastily shook off the feeling; it must have been mere wishful thinking.

However, despite his disturbingly persistent attraction to Graham, Mike held himself back.  He was good at disguising his emotions, after all; he’d done it all his life.  And at any rate, he’d tell himself, it was nothing more than an infatuation; he had Terry and Gray had David, and it was useless upsetting the precious balance they’d achieved for what was sure to amount to nothing.  Graham, for his part, showed no sign of being aware of Michael’s feelings for him.  Granted, he was apt to hit on him occasionally, but he did that to all the Pythons.  To most men, in fact.  It meant nothing, Mike was sure.  There was only one occasion where it seemed, to Mike, that it might be more than that on Graham’s part; only one time when Michael actually came close to yielding to the pull Gray had on him.

They went down to the pub, and Graham had a little too much to drink (as the Pythons were dismayed to find was fast becoming his wont), so Mike drove him home.  That was merely part of the routine; Michael lived nearest to Graham of any of them, so he was the one who drove him to rehearsals and recordings, and who carted him home when he was too wasted to do so himself.  Now, while Mike was a little more than tipsy, Graham was absolutely roaring drunk, and he would not keep his hands off Michael.  Eventually, Mike snapped (after a fashion; Michael Palin was not particularly good at losing his temper) and Graham retreated into his own seat, settling on merely casting Michael the occasional resentful look.

When they finally reached Gray’s flat, Mike had calmed down, and smiled over at Graham.  “We’ve arrived, Mr. Chapman,” he announced in a ridiculously posh accent, straightening in his seat and staring down his nose at the other man, trying desperately not to burst out giggling.  When Graham didn’t open the door or get out, however, he dropped the affectation. “Go on; out- or are you too sloshed to manage the stairs yourself?”

“Very well...”  Graham muttered, unfastening his seatbelt with some difficulty.  Michael smirked, and leaned across the other man to shove open his door.  Graham made no move to get out, however, and as Mike drew back, Graham caught his wrist in his hand, staring at him with a decidedly odd expression on his face.

Mike sighed, his face an image of put-upon patience.  “Go on, Gray; what’re you doing?” 

“Hey, Mikey?”

Michael rolled his eyes.  “Yes?”

“Can I kiss you?”

Mike stopped dead.  He could scarcely believe what he had just heard.  But then, Graham was reeking of alcohol, he'd probably go after anybody at this point without any fuss as to who the unfortunate bloke was.  As if from a long distance, he heard his own voice answer, and it sounded small and shaky.  “No.”  He said, trying to appear firmer than he felt.

Graham pouted, “Why not?”

Michael’s voice was slow and cautious as he answered, “Because...” he started, “because you’ve got David, and I’ve got-” Hurriedly he cut himself short; fortunately, Gray didn’t appear to notice anything, and he hastened to cover for the slip before it became conspicuous.  “Well... we shouldn’t.”

“Oh, that’s a rubbish reason.”  Graham’s pout had been replaced by a crooked smirk that was probably much less smooth than he thought it was, and suddenly, he was much, much closer than he should have been.  Mike could almost taste the gin on his breath.  A hand stole up to Michael’s face, lazily tracing his cheekbones, the line of his jaw, his chin, catching just slightly on his bottom lip.  Mike swallowed, feeling utterly out of his depth.

“I-” he stammered, but Gray laid a long index finger to his lips, admonishing him blurrily with his eyes.

“Come on now,” Graham crooned, “You can’t say you don’t want it...”

 His parted lips were mere centimetres from Michael’s now, but quite suddenly, Mike sat up, a frightened look on his face.  “No," he said.

Graham’s brow creased in a frown, and he reached out again, but Michael’s voice was adamant, the quiver now gone.  “No.” He drew in a deep breath.  “Please get out, Graham.”

“Hey, Mike; I’m sorry-”

But Mike cut him off with a gesture out the still-open door to the entrance to Graham’s building.  “Just go, Gray.  I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

And so he did, but the next morning, Graham made no sign that he remembered anything out of the ordinary happening the night before.  Hell, he probably didn’t; Michael wouldn’t have been surprised, given the sheer amount of alcohol he’d consumed.  However, regardless of whether Gray remembered what he’d said, how close they had come to kissing, Michael certainly did.  He avoided Graham whenever possible during the shooting session, half afraid of what to say or do; how to pretend that nothing had happened.  So, not knowing how to deal with Graham, he clung to Terry even more than usual that day, though as they were normally extremely close anyway, nobody noticed.  Nobody, that is, except Terry himself.

He cornered Mike during a rare free moment, turning to him with a concerned expression.  “Hey- you okay today, Mike?”

“Mmm?”  Michael looked up suddenly, startled by Terry’s question.  “Nothing,” he muttered hastily, “I’m fine.”

But Terry marked the way Mike’s eyes flicked over to where Graham was standing with Gilliam, and he scoffed.  “Bollocks you are.  Look, mate, I’ve known you for how many years now?  I know when something’s up; tell me what’s the matter.”

Mike shrugged, “Really, it’s nothing.  Just... Gray had a bit too much to drink last night, and... you know.”

Terry’s brow crinkled in skepticism as one thick, dark eyebrow rose almost into his sleek hair.  “And?  And... what?  He insulted your mother?  He pulled a knife on you?  He revealed to you that he’s actually straight?  He what?”

“Honestly, Terry, it doesn’t matter;” Michael adopted a sensible, reasoning tone, “he was drunk... it’s nothing.”

“Mm-hmm, I’m sure.  Now, spill it.”

“He” Mike’s voice cracked slightly and he swallowed, cursing himself, “tried to kiss me.  But-” Hastily he raised his voice as he saw the expected look of outrage flit onto Terry’s face, “he _didn’t_ , Terry, and it’s all cool.” 

“Oh?  Is that why you’ve been avoiding him all day, then?”

Mike sighed, rolling his eyes, “This is why I didn’t want to tell you.” He muttered, “I knew you’d take it badly.” When Terry, however, still looked as though he would quite cheerfully have disemboweled Graham were he only given the chance, Michael gripped his shoulders as though to physically hold him back. “It’s Gray, Tel; that’s just what he does. You can’t tell me he’s never come on to you either.”

Terry began to puff up his chest importantly, but realising the truth in Mike’s statement, he deflated and gave Michael a smile which let him know he’d won.  “You sure you’re alright, Mike?  You don’t want me to go talk to him or anything?”

“No!”  Mike blurted hastily, earning himself an odd look from Terry.  “Well,” he said, by way of explanation, “if you talked to him, you’d look jealous, wouldn’t you?  And someone who’s just a friend wouldn’t get jealous about that sort of thing.”

Terry sighed.  “You do know they all know, don’t you?”

Michael grimaced.  “Well, yes, but that’s not the _point._ ” He said, and his voice had a hint of a whine in it.  “There’s no reason to come out and say it direct.”

Terry’s smile was strained, but he took Mike’s hand in his nonetheless, and his touch was gentle; he squeezed Michael’s hand reassuringly.  “Very well.”  He grinned, “I’ll keep our secret.  Just for you, Mikey- ‘cause I love you.”

Michael grinned back; “You too, Terry.”

There was a swift embrace, and Mike wandered off to resume doing what he had been working on before Terry found him.  Terry watched him go; smiling vaguely, but with misgivings in his heart.  Michael’s words remained in his head - _It’s Gray, Tel; that’s just what he does.  You can’t tell me he’s never come on to you either_ \- It was true what he had said- it was just Graham, after all, and Graham consistently came on to just about any attractive male he came across- but knowing that to be the case, why was Mike so wigged out about Gray’s almost kissing him?  He shook his head vigorously as if to clear it, garnering several looks from passing techies; he could think of only one plausible reason for Mike’s odd behaviour, and that was one he was not willing to consider at the moment.  But then, Michael was a sensitive guy, very emotional; he could easily put it down to that.  And in any event, he was fairly sure that Michael had had a small crush on Graham when he had first met him, so that was bound to account for it. 

On Mike’s part, he felt at once glad that Terry had left it at that and horrible for deceiving him; he was, after all, not only his boyfriend, (though Michael never really referred to him as such) but his confidante, his best mate; Terry was the one to whom Michael told everything.  He knew about Mike’s ambitions and dreams, his secret fears, his silly wishes... but not this.  He could never tell Terry about this, and he hated it.

So the days passed, and soon enough, Michael was able to act normally around Graham again, and Terry’s worries subsided, for the most part.  However, regardless of how it might appear to Terry or anybody else, Mike’s feelings for Gray were only getting stronger.  During filming, he was hard put to tear his eyes away from the other man; Graham’s ideas always seemed brilliant and his jokes were always funny, regardless of whether anybody else thought so.  Michael even started occasionally writing with Graham, something he had never done before, and which rather puzzled both Terry and John.  Nevertheless, neither one mentioned anything to the other, as, of all the Pythons, they got on the least well of any of them. 

However, the worst thing for Michael was that he had started going to Terry not because he wanted him, but to assuage his guilt about Graham.  When the two of them went home, he would turn to Terry and put on a teasing smile, wanting the warmth of Terry’s flesh to drive away all unwanted thoughts of Graham, and knowing that Terry could never resist.  He would moan his name, over and over and over again; an effort almost more to convince himself than Terry.  He would spoon into the other man at night, feeling the warmth of his body and trying to not picture Graham in his place; and mostly, _mostly_ succeeding.

Graham, for his part, seemed almost to be flaunting himself in Michael’s face.  He had a different fuckbuddy almost every day during filming.  Some new guy would show up randomly in the middle of a session; a tough-looking bloke in leather on a motorbike, a black American with bulging muscles and a deep voice, or a long-haired hippie with youthful features, faraway eyes and bare feet.  Graham would thread an arm around the man in question’s waist quite comfortably and turn to the rest of the Pythons to introduce him; “Lads, this is...- what’s your name?- Derek, he’s come to watch us film; Derek, this is John and Eric and the two Terrys and _Michael_.”  Derek or Liam or Dominic or Etienne... there were endless permutations, and Michael, every day, would shake hands and smile, feeling their anonymous eyes torturing him.  What was more, Graham had never concerned himself with the heterosexual sensibilities of the rest of the world, and so, on these days, when they weren’t filming, he’d be off snogging his newest conquest in a corner.  When they were sitting, Gray would have a finger lazily trailing up and down the other man’s thigh; when they walked out, Graham would have his hand tucked into the other’s back pocket

It was this more than anything that sent Michael over the edge, for he hated these men; he hated them with a passion.  How dare they bask so easily and so lightly in Graham’s affections; how dare they be able to go to bed with Graham for one night, and forget him the next, going home quite contentedly to wives or boyfriends or lovers with only a quick explanation as to why they had been gone the night before.

He was jealous of them.

That’s what it was; Mike knew it, and with every new name Graham threw at him, it became more clear yet.  And soon enough, it became apparent to more people than just Michael; he simply couldn’t stop thinking about Graham; he became absentminded; he’d lie awake at night, his mind quite simply unable to rest.  His writing faltered, and he began to acquire a grey, weary look from stress and lack of sleep.  Terry grew anxious about him; it happened more often than not now, that if Terry chanced to awaken in the middle of the night, he would feel Mike beside him, tossing and turning, breathing restlessly through his nose.  Sometimes, Mike was not there at all, and Terry would wonder, in a half-asleep sort of way, if the physical really was only a manifestation of the emotional.  He hoped not.

So Terry worried about Michael, and soon enough, the worry spread to the rest of the Pythons.  Gilliam, of course, was rarely there, as he was always sequestered away somewhere working on his animations, and John wasn’t particularly good at being emotional, but Eric went out of his way to make sure Mike was alright.  Of course, Mike would always brush him off, claiming a head cold or a bad night the day before.  Eric could tell he was lying, but really, there was nothing more he could do about it.  Graham was predictably infuriating in his response; alternating between attending to Mike with all the thoroughness and care of the doctor he had nearly become, and not recognising that anything was wrong with him at all.  Michael was both irritated and grateful for their worry, but nothing they did changed anything, so he let them carry on.

But, even though nothing he did helped, and he knew it, Terry still watched.  He couldn’t help it; he loved Michael, he always had, and to see him like this was a pain and an anguish to him.  He watched, and one day, in his watching, he saw something which made his heart stop for a moment.  They were at a writing session; it was nothing out of the ordinary; the six of them resting comfortably in chairs in Eric’s front room, exchanging ideas, critiquing, laughing hysterically (even Michael).  As they were talking, Graham happened to glance over to where he and Mike were sitting.  Seeing Graham’s gaze, Terry looked sideways at Michael, and saw his face suffused with a desperate longing. However, Mike seemed to feel Terry’s eyes on him, for less than a second later, the expression on his face turned back to the laughing, joyous one he’d once been used to.

 _He wouldn’t really be gone_ , said a little voice in his head, _you’d still see him every day; you’d still be friends.  And_ , the voice added cruelly, _he’d be happy._

It was right, Terry knew, but even so, breaking up with Michael... he couldn’t even fathom it.  No longer being MichaelandTerry, PalinandJones... but he had to.  He had, to, and that was that.

However, it was not nearly as simple as all that.  For days, weeks, Terry danced around the subject- talking about it but not really, trying, somehow, to fix it so Michael would make the first move, though he knew that would never happen.  And when it didn’t (though that had been no more than a feeble, desperate hope), he began to steel himself for what was undoubtedly going to be one of the hardest things he’d ever forced himself to do.


	3. Chapter 3

“Lo, Michael.”

Mike glanced up from the derelict armchair that had become his favourite haunt for reading.  He was a mess; the top several buttons on his shirt were undone and his tie hung loose about his neck.  Vaguely red-rimmed eyes stared without really seeing at the thick tome which sat in his lap. The hand which wasn’t resting on the leaves of the book was holding a tumbler of scotch, filled beyond the usual amount for “casual drinking”.  He looked tired and strained.

“Hey, Tel.” he sighed, forcing a smile

“What’s the matter, love?”

Mike shook his head, taking a deep gulp of his drink.  “’S nothing; I just had a rather trying day, is all.”

Terry frowned.  “Liar.”

“Mmm.”  Michael made a noncommittal noise, immersing himself in his reading once more in an obvious effort to get Terry to stop talking to him.  Terry sighed, raking a hand through his hair.

“Mikey... there’s been something wrong with you for bloody ages; you can’t fool me, you know.  Tell me what’s the matter; I worry about you.”

Mike’s mouth twisted in a sad smile and he looked up at Terry, who had crossed to the chair and was now leaning on one of the arms, looking at him with concern.  “You don’t have to.  Worry, I mean.”

Terry took Michael’s hand in his.  “But I do.”

Michael made no response, just hunched further over, determinedly reading his book, not wanting to talk.  Terry moved around to the back of the chair, absentmindedly massaging Mike’s back and thinking.  Eventually, he figured, he would have to stop beating around the bush and being the polite and caring boyfriend and get out with it.  Finally, stilling the circling movement of his hands, he looked down at Michael.

“It’s about Graham, isn’t it?”

Instantly, Michael froze; every muscle in his body suddenly tense and on edge. He was gripping the book with a force that turned his knuckles white.

“Gray?”  He asked lightly, forcing his hands to unclench, “How d’you mean?”

Terry smiled bitterly.  “D’you think I’m blind, Mike?  I’ve...” he choked, “I’ve seen the way he looks at you- how you look back.”

“Terry-” Mike tried to interrupt, but Terry paid him no heed.

“It’s hard to breath around you two, what with the fucking sexual tension you've got going on. It’s stifling.”

Terry did not sound angry; on the contrary, his voice was quiet, just stating a fact he had long since resigned himself to the truth of.  Only the barest hint of bitterness tinged the edge of his words as he spoke

Michael, in his turn, was on the verge of panicking.  “There’s nothing between us, Tel!  Nothing, really.  I’d never- I wouldn’t- you know.”

“I know.”

Mike’s clear brown eyes shone with confusion, with guilt, with something frantic and frightened.  “I love you, Terry.”

Terry sighed.  “And that’s why you’re ashamed of me?”

Michael stopped dead, momentarily lost for words.  “I’m not ashamed of _you_ , I’m...” he broke off, unable to continue.  Terry raised an eyebrow, though he already knew the answer to his question.

“What?”

“I’m ashamed of me.”

“Yeah.”  A wistful smile, “Maybe that’s why you need Gray.”

There was a long silence.  Michael stared straight ahead, numb at what was happening; Terry was right, of course- he fancied Graham, loath though he was to admit it; he had done practically since he’d first seen him.  And he was right on a second count as well- Mike was ashamed of being gay; he always had been.  Even when he was with Terry, he felt as though he was doing something wrong- like a criminal, a sinner.  But with Graham, there was none of that.  With Graham, as much as he hated to acknowledge it, he felt home; he felt right. 

For a long while, neither of them could bring themselves to speak.  Mike sat, motionless, in his chair; Terry leaned on its back, his dark eyes for once devoid of their usual glitter.  A tight, burning knot had twisted itself in Michael’s throat, and he desperately willed himself not to cry.  He wanted Graham, yes, but he didn’t want _this._ Throughout this whole thing, he had somehow thought that he and Terry would be able to skip the whole “breakup” bit and he could magically end up with Gray and everything would be alright.  He ought to have known better.   Even if Terry was able to just let him go, he couldn’t do it himself.  He had had Terry for so long; the thought of living without him seemed unreal, even if it wasn’t really what he wanted.  He loved Terry, but it was a kind of worn-out love- something he was so used to feeling that he couldn’t tell if he actually felt it anymore, or if he was just accustomed to thinking so.  Surely you couldn’t love one man but be falling in love with another at the same time.

“Mike?”  Terry whispered from above him, and Michael looked up, painfully meeting the other man’s eyes.  _Do you want this?_ They were asking.  Just as they had before their first kiss, Michael recalled vaguely. However, he was soon pulled back to reality by the pain in those dark eyes which he hadn’t even dreamed of the last time he saw that question in them.  Did he? 

“I... I don’t know.”

Terry let out a breath.  “You have to, Mike.”

Mike nodded tightly and Terry, seeing his face, began to feel that same welling up in his throat and the corners of his eyes- it stung, and Terry swallowed hard, trying to make it go away.  Watching Michael, he could see his resolution being formed- could see Michael’s tormented brain working.  Michael, he knew, had always been too nice.  He hated conflict, hesitated to disagree with anyone, loathed making decisions that might hurt anyone.  And now, now Terry was forcing him to, and he knew it was anguish for Mike.

“Michael?”  His voice was soft now, and when Mike looked up, he saw that his face was wet with tears.  Terry reached down and gently brushed the smudges of wetness off round cheeks, his thumb tracing the familiar planes of Michael’s face, as he had done so often before.  Seeming to gain some sort of fortitude from the gesture, Mike nodded fiercely, more to himself than Terry.

“Tel.” His voice quavered, but there was no more indecision to be heard in it, “You’re right; you’ve always been.  Even from the first.”  He fell silent for a moment, appearing to be lost in memory, but he soon shook himself and resumed.  “I-I never wanted this for us, never; but I saw Graham that day and I couldn’t help myself.  And I still love you- in a way, but... this isn’t going anywhere, is it?  We’ve been the same, ever since Oxford; it’s just... it’s static, and I don’t want that.”

His voice petered out; as if he had expended all the energy he had to say that, and now could say no more.  Terry nodded.

“So that’s it?”

Michael swallowed, “I suppose it is.”

After that, there was a long, long silence.  The tears dripped silently off Terry’s nose as his eyelids slipped shut, gripping the back of the chair.  So it was done.  He wiped the back of one hand across reddened eyes, trying to stem the flow of tears; he was the one who had brought it up, after all- it had needed to be done.  However, regardless of what he told himself, the tears still came, tracks of saltwater scoring burning paths down his cheeks. 

“I suppose I’ll be going, then.”  Terry said in a half-whisper, “See you tomorrow, Mike.”

“Yeah,” Michael murmured, “See you, Terry.”

There was a disconsolate _click_ as the door shut, leaving Michael alone with his book.  He sighed to himself; it was a strange feeling, this; at once irreconcilably sad, and yet there was a hint of lightness at the edge of the feeling.  A weight which he had not even been aware of until it had lifted.  He had lost Terry, yes, but was he now not free to pursue... well, he wouldn’t think about that now.  Not yet.

The next day during filming, Mike and Terry varied between being unusually quiet around each other and acting unnaturally hearty and cheerful.  It took no Sherlock Holmes to note the melancholy sighs and gazes on Terry’s part and the surreptitious glances over towards Graham from Michael, and before long, despite the fact that they had never actually been told that Terry and Mike were going out in the first place, everybody knew that they had broken up.  For the rest of the session, everyone (with the exception of John, who wasn’t going to start being _nice_ merely because of something as inane as a failed romance) trod carefully around the two of them, and at the end of the day, Terry Gilliam offered the other Terry a lift home, so as to spare him the awkwardness of his usual car ride with Michael.  Terry gladly accepted.

It was not until some days later when Michael mustered up the courage to actually go and talk to Graham.

It was four o’clock in the afternoon when a knock sounded on the door of Graham Chapman’s London flat, timorous and hesitant against the flaking paint.  From inside, Graham’s voice called out.

“Come in; you know it’s never locked.”

“Hallo, Gray.”

Mike sounded slightly timid as he entered the room.  Graham looked up from the couch where he was lounging alone with his pipe, and exhaled a stream of silver-white smoke which drifted in insubstantial whorls in the late afternoon light slanting through grimy windowpanes.  He cocked an eyebrow in Michael’s direction.

“Hey, Michael.”  Seeing Mike’s slightly self-conscious attitude, Gray propped himself up on one elbow and looked over at him.  “What’s the matter, love?”

Mike shrugged awkwardly, tugging nervously at the collar of his shirt.  “I expect you’ve heard about me and Terry then, yeah?” He muttered.

Unsurprised that this was what Michael had come to talk about, Graham nodded.  “Yeah, I have.”

Michael gnawed on his lower lip, staring at the floor and rocking back on his heels.  “Erm, so... d’you know why?”

Graham’s voice was neutral as he answered.  “I should think so, yes, though I’ve not been told as much.”

“So...”

Mike fell into silence, looking so uncomfortable it would have been comical under any other circumstances.  Trying to hide a smile, Graham spoke up to save Michael his embarrassment.

“God, Mike, sit down- you’re a nervous wreck; d’you want a drink?  If you want to talk about this, you could at least wait until you’re a bit more relaxed.”

Mike slumped with relief and his face broke into a tired smile.  “Please.” he said, collapsing onto a nearby chair.  Graham smiled softly around his pipe and got up to fix the two of them drinks.  But of course, being Graham, he came back not only with two glasses brimming with spirits, but with the bottle as well, and before long, they were both completely smashed.  

Graham and Michael were similar in that liquor brought out the talkative side in both of them; even Graham, who was normally quite reserved, and soon they were talking animatedly, laughing and chatting, their tongues loosed by the sharp drink.

“It’s because of you, you know,” Michael suddenly pronounced, pointing a definitive finger at Graham.  Gray’s eyes widened at the gesture and he laughed, snorting into the bottle which he was still sipping from.

“What’re you on about, Palin?”

“Me and Terry- ‘s why we broke up.  Because of _you_.”  Another random gesture in Graham’s direction.

“Oh?”  Despite the fact that he was quite drunk, Graham still managed to look elegant, “And how d’you reckon that?”

Mike laughed.  “‘S because I fancy you, you git!”  
As soon as the words had left his mouth, however, he froze.  “Oh, shite.”  He muttered, “Oh, fuck, I’m drunk; why did I say that? I didn’t say that, I can’t have.”  He glanced over at Graham.  “Fuck, I said it.”

Graham laughed.  “Of course you said it, you twat.  Y’didn’t need to, anyway.”

Mike blinked.  “How’s that?”

“Because it’s obvious, of course.”

Gray chuckled at Michael’s drunkenly disbelieving gawk.  “And you know what else?” he said, with the air of someone about to unveil a great secret, “I fancy you too.”  He nodded judiciously.  Michael continued gawping, and Graham leaned unsteadily forward to close Mike’s mouth with a finger under his chin.  At that, a blush suffused Mike’s cheeks, and he looked curiously over at Graham.

“Why?”

“Mmm?”  Graham looked up to see what Mike was talking about.

Michael looked down, embarrassed even through the liquor in his blood.  “Why d’you rate me?”  He muttered, hastily seizing the bottle from where it sat on the sofa between them and taking a swig to hide his discomfiture.

Graham smiled lazily at this.  “Because,” he slurred, gazing at Michael fondly, “You’re sweet, and funny, and smart, and absolutely fucking _gorgeous._ ”

“‘M not.”

Graham arched one eyebrow.  “Bollocks.”

Mike shrugged, unconvinced, but Graham just scooted a little bit closer to him on the couch and Michael felt keenly the warmth from his body, and almost unconsciously he leaned into the other man

And then somehow, they were kissing.  Michael was unaware of how exactly it happened, but suddenly there was a hand twining in his hair and Graham lips were on his, and his tongue was in his mouth, tasting of gin.  It was everything and nothing like kissing Terry; Graham had sharper edges somehow; his kisses burnt.  Or perhaps it was just the alcohol speaking, Michael didn’t know, didn’t really care.  He was making the most arousing noises; low, rough moans; deep and masculine, which skittered down Mike’s spine, tingling out through his nerves.  Graham’s kisses continued down his neck, and Mike arched at the sensation, whimpering somewhere in the back of his throat as Gray’s teeth closed around his earlobe, his tongue flicking out to trace lazy circles on the skin just below it.  Mike’s eyes slipped shut and he allowed a moan to escape his half-parted lips. 

At that, Graham hissed something low and incendiary into his ear, his hand slipping down to slide beneath Michael’s tight t-shirt to stroke at the skin beneath.  Michael bowed into the touch, letting out a cracked gasp as Gray’s fingers brushed at one of his nipples, twisting it into a sensitive peak against the fabric of his shirt.  Clumsily, Michael tugged at the shirt, pulling it over his head so that Graham could resume his explorations without the confines of the tight material.  Gray bit lightly at the other nipple, laving it with his tongue and then pulling back and blowing on it; the sudden shock of cold raced through Michael’s bloodstream straight to his prick.

While Michael was preoccupied with the sensation of Graham’s dexterous mouth making its way down his chest and stomach, his hands had made their own way down to the waistband of Mike’s trousers.  Deftly, Gray flicked open the button and before Mike was properly aware of it, his trousers and pants were shoved down around his legs and a warm hand was wrapped around his cock.

“Ah, fuck...” Michael gritted from between clenched teeth, but Graham just smiled.

“We’ll get to that later, love.”

Graham’s hands were larger than Terry’s, his fingers longer and slimmer, and there were calluses marking the ridge of his palm and pads of his fingers.  Terry’s hands, which were somehow eternally soft and delicate, had no such marks, and the difference in sensation was such that it took only a few short strokes before Michael’s body tensed and he came.  His hand groped blindly at the cushions of the sofa, seeking something to steady himself, and he let out a strangled cry as he spilled into Graham’s hand.  Spent now, he slumped bonelessly into the couch as Gray wiped his hand off on a kerchief pulled from his pocket, licking away what the cloth could not remove. 

 _A waste,_ Michael thought vaguely, the words chasing themselves around his post-coital, liquor-addled mind; _he should have done that before; it’s damn sexy._ But though his mind might still be thinking such things, his body was satiated, and he allowed his head to tip back and his eyes to close, happy for the moment, basking in Graham’s presence and the late afternoon warmth.

Michael lay contentedly in the sunlight on a couch in Graham’s flat.  Smiling a soft, sated smile, he allowed his gaze to flick over to Graham, who was sprawled next to him, all his long limbs comfortably splayed out across the couch.  Their knees were just barely touching.

“I can’t believe,” Michael murmured, half to himself, “that we just did that.”

Graham smiled over at Mike.  “I can.”

Michael let out a soft chuff of laughter, but then his brow creased in a frown and he looked up to meet Graham’s eyes.  “What about David?  You gonna tell him?”

Gray shrugged.  “Dave’s a good sort; he’ll understand.”  A wicked smile curved his mouth then, and he chortled quietly.  “In any event, our relationship’s never exactly been monogamous, has it?”

Mike grinned.  “I suppose not, what with you going off to shag the nearest poof you can find whenever we go somewhere to film.” 

“That’s a rather indelicate way of putting it; it’s not like he doesn’t do his share as well.”

“Yes, well.”  Michael halted, sobering somewhat, “Am I just that, Gray?”

“Just what?”

“Just, y’know,” Mike stumbled over the words, trying to find the right way to phrase it, “the nearest poof.  A fling ‘cause you’re bored?”

Graham shook his head vehemently, his air of joking quite gone.  “No.  No; I’ve fancied you since forever, Mike.  Ever since I first met you, you know.  D’you remember that day?  When Terry introduced us?”

“Mm-hmm,” Michael murmured.  He did; he smiled fondly, lost in memory for a moment, before turning mockingly accusatory eyes on Graham.  “I remember you checking me out in front of my boyfriend, you slut.”

Hands raised in a show of innocence.  “Well, I didn’t know he was your boyfriend, did I?  You kept it well hidden.”

“Yeah.”  Michael’s eyes were suddenly downcast, “Yeah, we did.”

And he did the same with this relationship, (for indeed, it did develop into a proper relationship, despite the fact that Graham already had David).  Graham, who knew the feeling of being openly gay after having been closeted for years, loathed having to hide his relationship with Michael as he hadn’t done since he’d first met David, but respected Mike enough to keep his silence.  The only thing anybody outside of the Monty Python troupe (who shortly figured it out for themselves, just as they had with Michael and Terry) knew was that he had met “this adorable little bloke with brown hair and a beautiful smile.”  Michael blushed when he first heard the epithet Graham had given him, becoming conspicuously absent whenever Gray or anybody else started to discuss Graham’s mysterious lover, but Graham, true to his word, left said man’s identity up to their imaginations.

He and Mike fought about it sometimes.  It was one of the few rough spots they consistently met together, as Mike was naturally very compliant, and Gray said little enough to begin with, but they had blazing rows about this.  Graham felt that it was almost a betrayal on his part; that he should go through having a coming out party, being a poof, as he called himself, and now have to hide one of the most important relationships he’d ever had.  Michael had no argument to this, no way to combat Graham’s feelings, but, as he’d always known, he was ashamed; he was afraid and ashamed of what he was, and being a Python, he knew that if he came out, everybody would know, and he’d get no peace about it.

It was nothing like Michael’s romance with Terry, which had been smooth always- happy in every way- the two of them had complimented each other perfectly, and they laughed and skimmed their way through love like a calm ocean.  With Graham, it was different.  They quarreled sometimes; they had to work out kinks and problems, but it was all the more fulfilling for that.  Gray sometimes got angry at Michael for his meekness; or occasionally, Graham himself would be unable to resist the temptation of a quick fuck with some random bloke he met down at the pub, and Mike too would be hurt by that.  It could be tough, but it worked.  It was a deeper emotion than what he had felt for Terry- a feeling far within him that felt almost like an ache, it was so intense. 

There were times when Mike looked at Gray and was overcome with such love it hurt.  Neither of them was perfect, no; there were no such adolescent illusions with them, but Michael had a feeling that never in his life could he find anything better than this- it was quite simply impossible. Despite all its shortcomings, it seemed that his relationship with Graham was an ultimate of sorts; there was nobody with whom he was happier.

One morning several months after Graham and Michael had “officially” become a couple, Eric strolled into the studio, clutching a newspaper in one hand and wearing an amused expression.  He hailed Graham, John, and Michael, who were poring over the draft of some new sketch.

“Hello, lovers!”

“You wish.”  Graham muttered genially.

Eric laughed, taking the barb good-naturedly.  “Nah- you’re busy enough with someone else, I’ll wager.”  He hefted the folded newspaper.  “You lot seen the paper yet today?”

A jumble of responses came back to him- “Nope.”

“Nor I.”

“Do I ever?”

Eric grinned wickedly, his eyebrows rising until they were in distinct danger of disappearing into his hairline as he chortled delightedly.  “Oh-ho-ho!  Well, then... here; have a glim.  You two’ll find it especially interesting, I imagine.”  He threw the paper over to them, nodding at Michael and Graham.

Gray caught it and curiously shook it open.  As he began to read, Eric jerked his head in John’s direction and the two of them moved away to talk, leaving Mike and Graham alone to discuss whatever the paper contained.  Graham’s eyes scanned down the page, his brow creased in a curious frown.  As he read, a smile started to twitch at the corner of his mouth and he began to laugh.

“Well, bugger me sideways,” he murmured.  “I didn’t know there was a photographer there.”

Mike leaned over.  “What?”

“Here.”  Graham held out the newspaper and Mike took it, staring disbelievingly at the story Graham had opened to. 

The first thing his eyes fell on was the picture at the top of the article; it was in fuzzy black and white, but the image it depicted was still quite clear; himself and Graham, captured in a tender kiss.  Above it, the headline boldly proclaimed “ **A PYTHON AFFAIR: Palin and Chapman engaged in illicit homosexual relationship?** ”  He stared.  Just below the picture, the article began.

 _“On Wednesday last, special correspondent Nigel Freeman discovered Michael Palin and Graham Chapman locked in a passionate kiss outside a Leeds pub.  Palin and Chapman, of_ Monty Python’s Flying Circus _fame, were seen exiting the pub at roughly ten o’clock PM and exchanging a heated kiss.  Passers-by said that it was no surprise to see this coming from Chapman, an openly proud homosexual, but were shocked to find Palin, widely known as the most quiet and reserved of the Monty Python troupe, taking part in such activities...”_

Michael left off reading and looked up; he really didn’t know what to think.  He had hidden it so well, for so long, and now... all of Britain probably knew already, and with the way celebrity gossip flew, he had no doubts that the rest of the world would soon follow.  However, now that it came to it, he found that he really didn’t care as much as he’d thought he would. He sighed, closing his eyes.

Graham was still chuckling to himself, but when he saw the expression on Mike’s face, he sobered.

“You alright?”

“I think... I think I am.”  Though he did not look entirely sure of himself as he said it; indeed, his words seemed to surprise him.

Gray saw this and laid a comforting hand on Michael’s arm, looking at him with concern.  “Are you sure?  ‘Cause I know how you are about that... people knowing that you’re a poof, I mean.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll deal with that when I come to it, I suppose.  There’s nothing I can do about it now.”  He sighed.  “I haven’t been really happy for a long time, you know; I’ll feel horrible about it of course, but...”  He trailed off and turned to Graham, compulsively reaching up to clutch the hand still resting on his shoulder.  Gray looked slightly nonplussed.

“So, you’re alright with people knowing?  I thought...”

Michael smiled; a real, free, untrammeled smile that lit up his face.  “Oh, I am.  Or- I was. Just now... it seems pointless to try and hide it, doesn’t it?”  He smiled once more.  “I’m happy with you, Gray.  I’m happy, and I don’t care who knows.”

Graham cocked his head and gave Michael a curious smile.  “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for you to say that.”

“Oh?  I bet I do- no longer than I’ve waited, certainly.”

Graham’s smile widened.  “Probably not.”

An uncharacteristically mischievous smile stole across Mike’s face, and he jerked his head slightly in the direction of John and Eric, who had by this time been joined by both Terrys.  They were all naturally pretending not to listen to the conversation taking place across the room from them, but the slight grin present on all their faces (even Terry’s, though his had a slightly wistful edge to it) betrayed them.

“Come on,” Michael said, “let’s get to work.”


End file.
